Charlie Martz and Other Stories: The Unpublished Stories Page 22

  With one hand he began stroking her hair, gently, and he said softly, “Virginia” bringing her face down to his. But said nothing more. He kissed her lingeringly and she did not try to pull away from him. His lips moved to her cheek and she turned her head, burying it against his shoulder.

  “You’re alive, Virginia”—McLean’s words were barely above a whisper—“but you have to do something to stay alive. Something more than just breathe and eat. You have to do something, build toward something, look forward to something; because there’s no such thing as just staying in one place. Bringing it down to right now, it’s like saying you’re either for me or against me, Virginia. There isn’t any middle ground—like letting me lie here and not doing anything because you helped your brother try to escape and he was killed. That doesn’t make sense, does it? That’s an excuse. You don’t want to say you feel sorry for yourself, so you make up an excuse that almost sounds like a principle. Do you see that, Virginia?”

  She lay against him, listening, hearing the soft-strong sound of his voice, feeling his arms around her and the rough scratch of his cheek and being aware of the damp, faintly sour smell of his coat, but not minding it. She remained in his arms, wondering how she would meet his eyes, then beginning to picture herself in his arms—

  McLean was saying, “We’ll leave when it’s dark. You’ll just take me out back through the orchard and show me how to reach the river without going near the road.” His hand continued to stroke her hair.

  “It’s just a matter of making up your mind, Virginia. After you do that it’s easy.”

  She pushed up and away from him, knowing he wasn’t expecting it, and ran from the room, feeling his eyes following her and already she was thinking: You made a fool of yourself! Lying there, showing your weakness—

  She went up the front stairs to her bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed to look out at the gray late afternoon light, at the trees lining the muddy road and the pines that formed a silent dark wall along the far side of the meadow.

  She wanted to look at something or do something, anything, but do it quickly to erase the picture still in her mind: seeing herself in McLean’s arms, awkwardly half kneeling, half lying over him with his arms around her. She closed her eyes, feeling the restless urge inside of her; then threw herself back on the bed, turning to her side, then to her stomach with an arm up in front of her face.

  And now she pictured herself running across the meadow, running with the wind in her face, with the hissing sound of it drowning out McLean’s voice, running through the pines and beyond, and beyond that, running and falling and running and finally she would fall and not get up. She would sleep for a long time, lying in a pine grove, and even asleep she would be aware of the clean pine smell and the crisp air that was fresh and brought only whispers of sound.

  She would be alone—beyond the solemn serious funeral voices offering sympathy; beyond the irritatingly persistent offerings of Olin Worrel (She told herself that he was a kind, generous, prosperous man who was wise enough to stay out of the war altogether. “Virginia, I’m not angry at those Yankees,” he would say. “Why should I go fight them? Just because they talk funny?”); beyond picturing things that used to be and would never be again; beyond the Yankees in Okolona and the silent dark house and the man in the sun parlor; beyond seeing herself in his arms . . .

  OLIN WORREL SAID, “VIRGINIA, I’m sorry. Were you asleep?”

  She stood with one hand on the door, the other holding a lamp, holding it high so that its light cast a pale yellow glow over Worrel’s face, clearly sharpening the drawn expression about his mouth, bringing out the untrimmed, wiry texture of his mustache and the glistening trace of perspiration across his forehead.

  Beyond him, the trees lining the road showed ghostly in the dusk. “I thought I had just dozed off when you knocked,” she said. “But I must have slept for hours.”

  Worrel’s gaze darted past her into the darkness of the parlor. “He’s still here?”

  Virginia nodded. “Yes.”

  “Is he any better? I mean can he move without it killing him?”

  “I suppose—”

  “I want to talk to him.”

  “Why?”

  “Virginia, don’t waste time, please.”

  It was in her mind: He was a way to end this. He’s thought it out and made a decision and whatever he does it will be out of your hands and you won’t have to think about him or worry about his wound or—That’s enough.

  “All right, Olin.” She stepped aside to let him in, then closed the door and led him through the dark rooms to the sun parlor. The lamplight spread over McLean and she saw him raise himself on his elbow, saw his body twist suddenly with his left hand crossing over and digging under the pillow.

  “Don’t move!” Olin’s voice. “You bring out a gun, I’ll kill you. I swear to heaven I will!”

  Virginia had set the lamp on the side table. And now she saw the derringer in Worrel’s hand. McLean was on his side, still with his hand beneath the pillow. “Get his gun.” Worrel’s voice again.

  Her eyes went to McLean’s now, to his quiet, accusing gaze, and she felt a heat come over her face. “Olin, you said you wanted to talk to him.” She said it earnestly, but her tone sounded weakly apologetic.

  “I’ll talk to him,” Worrel said, more sure of himself now. “First get his gun . . . and you sit up.” Holding the derringer almost at arm’s length, he waved it at McLean. “Come on, swing your legs over.”

  Slowly McLean pushed himself up. When he was sitting, Virginia moved toward him, keeping her eyes from his; but as her hand went under the pillow, touching the heavy metal of the revolver, McLean murmured, “Now you think it won’t be on your conscience.” And she glanced at him quickly, seeing the quiet awareness in his eyes and the gaunt hollows of his face.

  Worrel waited until she stepped back with the Dragoon revolver in her hand. “Now get up and get out of here,” he said to McLean.

  McLean looked at Virginia. “You didn’t need him. I told you I was going. With your help or without it.”

  Worrel pointed the derringer threateningly. “I’m warning you. Leave her alone now. She’s not about to risk her life for you or anybody like you. If it was me, I’d turn you over to the Yankees in a minute. That’s the truth and it would be for your own good whether you know it or not. But Virginia’s against that, so I’m giving you one chance to get out of here and never show yourself again. Neither one of us is obligated to help you, and if your being here endangers our lives then you have to get out and that’s all there is to it.”

  Walk away, Virginia thought. Walk away right now and it will be over, something behind you that Olin did, that Olin was responsible for. But she thought then, watching Olin and feeling McLean’s eyes still on her: You would have to run. You would have to run and keep running as long as you lived, and the wind would have to be loud, howling loud to keep out the sound of his voice, and if you stopped for one moment, McLean would be with you. No, she thought. You couldn’t close your eyes tight enough not to see him, or sing or scream loud enough not to hear yourself saying over and over again the things he said. You realize that, don’t you? If you don’t, try to look at him.

  And try telling yourself you’re still going to marry Olin. Try that even without looking at McLean. She thought: You don’t know his first name. You don’t even know that much about him. But you still can’t run fast enough, can you?

  “Olin, put down that gun.” She raised McLean’s revolver, pointed it at Worrel, and felt the tension, the tight heaviness, beginning to leave her body. And she remembered McLean saying that it would be easy once she made up her mind.

  “Virginia.” Worrel’s mouth hung open dumbly.

  Her left hand came under the barrel to steady it. “Olin, Mr. McLean has to go through the Union lines to the Tombigbee, and we’re going to help him.”

  Worrel watched her closely, trying to understand this sudden change in her. He said then, c
autiously, “You’re taking advantage of me, Virginia. You know I wouldn’t even point this gun at you. Just like I’m sure you wouldn’t think of pulling that trigger in my direction. Not even to scare me.” He moved toward her, but stopped abruptly as Virginia cocked the revolver.

  “You’re going to help by giving him your clothes, Olin. That’s all you have to do, but it will be something.”

  “Virginia, just this afternoon you didn’t want to have a thing to do with him.”

  “Olin, take off your clothes or I swear to heaven I’ll shoot!”

  Worrel hesitated, staring at her in silence; then his arm dropped heavily and he let the derringer fall.

  “Virginia,” he said tiredly, “I’ve been a practical man all my life. I apply common sense to everything I do and it’s made me a success in business. You know that. Common sense says you don’t risk your life without a reason. I mean a good reason. All right, you ask yourself, is this a good reason? You answer, of course not. The Yankees’ll be back. You know it and he knows it—look at him. Ask him. All right, even if you’re lucky and don’t get caught; even if he gets through and even if he’s ever well enough to fight again, what’s the sense of it? We’ve lost the war. It’s a matter of time now.

  “Virginia, I’d gamble my life savings on it, the Yankees’ll be back here before you know it and General Forrest will be dead or scattered so thin he’d never find his men again. This could be the last night of the war, Virginia. The last hour. Four years of fighting gone up in smoke and you can almost hear the quietness coming.”

  Virginia’s eyes went to McLean. “Would you risk your life knowing it was the last day of the war?”

  McLean shrugged. “The day isn’t important. You do what you feel you have to do.”

  “Olin,” Virginia asked, “have you ever believed in anything that strongly?”

  “He’s a soldier,” Worrel said earnestly. “A soldier with an exaggerated sense of duty. But you didn’t take an oath. I’m talking about you, Virginia. You haven’t even told me why you’re helping the man!”

  “I’m not sure I can explain it,” she said. “And if I could, I doubt if you’d understand.”

  Worrel closed and opened his eyes wearily. “Virginia, that’s a line from a play. But this is real life. There’re Yankees outside, all over, and their Springfields are as real as they are. You have to have a reason—and I mean a reason—to do what you’re talking about. Not just a feeling.”

  “I have a reason.”

  “I want to know what it is.”

  “Though it’s a feeling too.”

  “Virginia, for God’s sake—”

  Tell him, she thought, and felt a quick excitement through her body. Tell both of them. Get it out and over with. And she did, deliberately now, quietly, “I’m helping him because I want to help him, Olin. Not because I feel obligated or feel sorry for him.

  “You won’t understand it, Olin, because it doesn’t sound reasonable. But . . . I’m helping him because he’s a man. Because he’s so much a man even the house feels different with him inside of it.” She almost smiled. “You’d have to be a woman to understand that, Olin.” She said then, “I tried closing my eyes to him. I tried closing them so tight that all the things he told me would be squeezed right out of my memory. Then when you came back this evening I thought, Ah, Olin will do something. Now you don’t have to think about him anymore.

  “But I’m thinking about him right this minute, Olin. Because he’s something I can believe in, and that’s what you don’t understand—having a feeling about something so strongly that you believe in it almost the same way you believe in God even without seeing Him.”

  Virginia’s eyes remained on Worrel. “I’ll wait for him, too, if he wants. I don’t even know his first name; but I think I would wait a very long time just on the chance he might come back.”

  She waited for the sound of McLean’s voice, still not looking at him, afraid to take her eyes from Worrel. McLean was staring at her, sitting on the edge of the sofa with his hands placed ready to push himself up; but he didn’t move. He sat with his full attention on her for a long moment before he spoke.

  “Virginia,” he said finally. “I feel we’re going to have a long talk. I feel we’re going to learn middle names and nicknames and Confirmation names, and everything there is to know about each other. I’ve got a feeling as soon as this war is over I’ll be back. No matter where I am, I’ll come straight here. That’s the kind of feeling I have.”

  Slowly, Virginia let her breath out, as if making the sudden feeling of relief last as long as she could, and she wanted to smile and go into McLean’s arms. But there would be time for that. Right now—

  “Olin,” she said patiently, “take your clothes off.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ELMORE LEONARD wrote more than forty books during his long career, including the bestsellers Raylan, Tishomingo Blues, Be Cool, Get Shorty, and Rum Punch, as well as the acclaimed collection When the Women Come Out to Dance, which was a New York Times Notable Book. Many of his books have been made into movies, including Get Shorty and Out of Sight. The short story “Fire in the Hole,” and three books, including Raylan, were the basis for the FX hit show Justified. Leonard received the Lifetime Achievement Award from PEN USA and the Grand Master Award from the Mystery Writers of America. He died in 2013.

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  ALSO BY ELMORE LEONARD

  FICTION

  Raylan

  Djibouti

  Road Dogs

  Up in Honey’s Room

  The Hot Kid

  The Complete Western Stories of Elmore Leonard

  Mr. Paradise

  When the Women Come Out to Dance

  Tishomingo Blues

  Pagan Babies

  Be Cool

  The Tonto Woman & Other Wetern Stories

  Cuba Libre

  Out of Sight

  Riding the Rap

  Pronto

  Rum Punch

  Maximum Bob

  Get Shorty

  Killshot

  Freaky Deaky

  Touch

  Bandits

  Glitz

  LaBrava

  Stick

  Cat Chaser

  Split Images

  City Primeval

  Gold Coast

  Gunsights

  The Switch

  The Hunted

  Unknown Man #89

  Swag

  52 Pickup

  Mr. Majestyk

  Forty Lashes Less One

  Valdez Is Coming

  The Moonshine War

  The Big Bounce

  Hombre

  Last Stand at Saber River

  Escape from Five Shadows

  The Law at Randado

  The Bounty Hunters

  NONFICTION

  Elmore Leonard’s 10 Rules of Writing

  CREDITS

  COVER DESIGN BY ADAM JOHNSON

  COPYRIGHT

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  CHARLIE MARTZ AND OTHER STORIES. Copyright © 2015 by Elmore Leonard, Inc. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  FIRST EDITION

  EPub Edition June 2015 ISBN 9780062364944

  ISBN 978-0-06-236492-0

  1516171819OV/RRD10987654321


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